“Stupid animals,” Ilze snorted.
“No,” said the other in a calm, considering voice. “Not, I think, stupid. Simply not very interested in most of the things humans are interested in. Though I can understand much of what they say to one another, when one has been here a time, one longs for human speech. And yet, as I remember it, we humans spend much time talking of sex or politics—that may not be true in the Chancery, of course.” This was a polite aside with a little bow to Ilze. “The Talkers have no sex, and their politics are rudimentary. They do not talk of things most of us would find interesting. They talk of philosophical things. The nature of reality. The actuality of God. How Potipur differs in his essential nature from Viranel. Whether perception guarantees reality. Things of that kind. …”
“I find that hard to believe,” Ilze said with a sneer. “They do not look or behave like philosophers.”
“But then, how should philosophers look or behave? We cannot expect the Thraish to behave as if they were human. If human philosophers perched on high stones, engaging in screaming matches, shitting on each other’s feet the while, they would be discredited, but for the Thraish that’s ordinary enough behavior.’’
“And they talk only of philosophy.”
“And food, of course. They talk a great deal about food.”
“Dead bodies,” snorted Ilze.
“No. They scarcely mention what they eat now. All their talk is of what was eaten long ago, when there were herdbeasts on the steppes. They recall the taste of weehar with religious fervor. There is something deeply and sincerely religious among the Thraish, and it wells up from that belief they call the Promise of Potipur.” The man nodded to himself, reflecting. “Do you know that promise? ‘Do my will and ye shall have plenty.’ That seems to be the core of it. And the will of Potipur involves breeding large numbers of themselves, too many for this world to sustain, which destroyed their plenty before. I think sometimes how hard it must be for them to keep to that belief when there have been no herdbeasts on the steppes for centuries. But, I understand, there may be beasts soon again.” Ilze had not heard this rumor. Frule enlightened him, telling him what had been overheard. “They don’t seem to care what we overhear. Sometimes I don’t think they believe we are sentient,” he commented, shaking his head. “They don’t seem to consider what we might tell other humans about them when we leave here.”
“Perhaps they have ethics which would make such a thing impossible,” Ilze suggested with a sneer.
“Possibly.” The man shrugged. “It is true that the Thraish cannot conceive of a nest sibling giving anything of value to others outside that nest, and that would probably include information. They cannot conceive of it because no Thraish would do it, for any price. Perhaps they consider us human workers as a kind of next sibling because they feed us. Perhaps they consider us an emotional equivalent to nestlings. On the other hand, there is a kind of scavenger lizard, the ghroosh, which lives in Thraish nests, feeding on the offal that is left there, and perhaps they consider us in that light. Perhaps we are merely tolerated. Ah, well, whatever the truth of that may be, it is interesting to meet you, good to see a new face.”
“How many humans are there here? And what do you eat?”
“Oh, we bring some food with us. And the fliers catch stilt-lizards for us, or we climb down to the River to catch fish. Though we have to eat it there. The Thraish will not allow it in the Talons. As for how many of us? A dozen or so, sometimes more, sometimes fewer. I’ve been here two years myself, building perches and feeding troughs, mostly. Though it’s interesting, I’ve stayed long enough. It’s getting time to go.”
“Go where?” Ilze was suddenly very interested. Did the Chancery know of these human lice, creeping among the feathers of the Thraish?
“Back home,” the scholar said with a vague gesture. He peered closely at Ilze, not reassured by what he saw in the Laugher’s face. “You wouldn’t be of a mind to make trouble for me with the fliers, would you, Laugher? For my saying I’m studying the Thraish.”